Wands on the Table
by saffroncremebrulee
Summary: AU. They said my name is Hermione Granger. They showed me a stick and called it my wand. They said I was a witch named Hermione Granger who used that stick- that wand- to kill people. But I don't remember killing anyone, owning a wand, or even being a witch, let alone being one named Hermione Granger. I only remember a single word: "Obliviate."
1. Alohomora

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment purposes only. It's AU; just taking the characters for a spin in an imaginary world.

...

They said my name is Hermione Granger.

They showed me a stick- polished and pretty, to be sure, albeit a piece of wood nonetheless- and called it a wand.

 _My_ wand.

They said they were witches and wizards and I was one of them.

When I laughed and said that was the most preposterous thing I have ever heard, they didn't smile and said I was a witch named Hermione Granger who used that stick- that _wand-_ to kill people. Multiple people like them with names that I'm certain I would remember if I met them before. Peter Pettigrew. "Alastor Moody." Dolores Umbridge. Tom Riddle, etc. etc.

(You get the idea, right? I could go on but, honest, I don't remember knowing any of them.)

They said I knew them and I was a serial murderer.

But I don't remember killing anyone, owning a wand, or even being a witch, let alone being one named Hermione Granger.

I don't remember being anyone, having any belongings, or even having a name.

I only remember a flash of brilliant green eyes, a stick (sorry, _wand;_ not my own, of course, because I'm positive I have never, ever seen _that_ piece of wood before in my life), and one word-

 _"Obliviate_."

...

I suppose you have questions. Good ones.

Thought-provoking ditties such as "Wait a minute, what you've just written makes no sense whatsoever. How do you know these people are who they say they are? How do we know that you are who you say you are? How did you even get here? Where did you come from? Who are you, anyway, if you're not Hermione Granger?"

To which I reply, _I don't know, I don't know, I don't know_ , ad infinitum. If my conundrum was a math problem, it would be a sequential number series, one of those fractals with an unknowable perimeter. Perhaps it would be all the digits of Pi, distilled into an infinite loop of numbers that culminate in an as-yet-untitled concept we loosely call "infinity." If my conundrum were a logic problem, I would term it a Rubik's Cube of Picasso-like flatness and Matisse-like deconstructionism. Difficult to solve, but doable, given the fact that this Wizard world seemed to have many parallels to my (so-called) Muggle (i.e., ordinary people) world.

For one, rules exist. Therefore, the underlying ruling logic must be discernible and, ergo, susceptible to reason.

And I, "Hermione Granger," am a coldly logical person.

A few things are obvious to me after a thorough consideration of all the opposing angles.

The issue of sanity aside, these witches and wizards genuinely believe they are, in fact, magical beings who can channel their energy through wands. For whatever reason, they seem to believe that I am one of them (see: previous entry) and have decided that I, in my capacity as an exceptionally brilliant witch, concocted and executed a fantastic plan to murder the reigning Undesirables of the magical community.

If I were an emotional person, I would say that this Hermione Granger, whoever she was, was doing the Wizarding World a favor. Clearly none of the deceased were contributing members to society, which rather begs the question of why I, alias Hermione Granger, would be on trial for such a benevolent act of charity while the figures of authority- the very adults conducting the trial- who left children to fend for themselves were not at least questioned about their neglect of vulnerable elements of society and, in some cases, clear appeasement and support of these so-called "evil" forces.

But I am not emotional.

I am logical.

It is clear that this trial is what people in my world would call a Witch-Hunt. (Haha, albeit not _funny_ Ha-Ha and more _ironic lip sneer_ Ha-ha.) This is a clear attempt to shift the blame from the obvious lack of adult intervention against rogue elements of society on Hermione Granger, who is apparently me.

Which just isn't _right._

Therefore, it doesn't matter how I got here or where I came from or what my real name is.

Hermione Granger is not going down for murders committed in the name of the greater good.

 _I'll_ make sure of it.


	2. Prior Incantato

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, just my dry wit. This kinda funny piece of fanfiction is for entertainment, not profit.

...

The first thing I do as Hermione Granger is ask for a lawyer, barrister, whatever the Wizarding equivalent happens to be. To my non-surprise, I'm not offered one when the request is made. Such a profession does not exist here, evidently. Furthermore, no one seemed to understand what I meant when I asked for a chance to telephone a representative at the British Embassy, either. Most of the guards accompanying me had evidently not even heard of such an organization, furthering my personal opinion that I am, indeed, serving as the butt-monkey of an epic joke with me as the punchline.

Just for kicks and giggles, I proceed to repeat my request at the general audience, garnering the attention of some of the spectators in the Courtroom for their reaction and character types. Again, almost everyone appeared genuinely confused. The people who did know what I was talking about were expectedly disdainful. A middle-aged man with a beer gut actually laughed and cackled "Now what would you need those Muggles for? They can't even find their way to Diagon Alley." Another distinctively toad-like one whispered that I was a Muggle; ergo, I would be expected to make such foolish mistakes.

Being Muggle appears to be a liability, especially on the knowledge front. The question wasn't whether or not being a Non-Muggle was a liability; rather, it assumed that being Magical was the end all be all. I mark "HOW?" In bright capital letters in my head for future pondering. Not for the first time, I wonder if I have Time-Traveled to an alternate dimension where the people are simply insane. The thing is that everyone _appears_ to be sane, that is, they were deeply committed to this illusion that wizards, witches, and, indeed, magic was real and that people such as myself (non-Magical "Muggles") would be able to learn such things as turning rats into tea cozies and blasting people into smithereens with a stick, and that this was somehow _better_.

Sorry, _wand_. I must remember to refer to it by its proper name, lest I forget again. Wouldn't want to appear as an ignorant Muggle too often, though nothing doesn't stop me from feeling increasingly baffled and bewildered.

With that in mind, I hastily request the next best thing in lieu of a barrister- **books** , as many as I can get my hands on, as well as accompanying statutes of law pertaining to my rights as an accused.

In any case, with my requests for counsel was thusly ignored, the proceedings begin with a razor-dry rendition of obscure magical statutes that probably haven't changed since the first Wizengamot meeting of 1389. Several of the jurors fell asleep during the reading, though I, of course, force myself to remain awake in an effort to understand what was happening. Eventually, however, the duties of the Supreme Mugwump in regards to Wizarding Fashion tenets simply proved too bland and I, too, fell into an unpleasant internal musing.

On the bright side, I hadn't expected such a thing as due process to exist in this alleged Wizard World. I was rather expecting to be blown to smithereens by one of those wands, after all. On the not-so-bright side, due process involves a lengthy trial with unknown conventions and politicking that I had yet to grasp. Great fun for my inner Machiavelli, not as great for my general well-being, as the penalty for losing the game is being kissed by someone named Dementor, whom I gather is your average Romeo or Casanova if they ate souls instead of ghosting you after the second piece of garlic bread.

 _Right_. Can't focus on that yet. Need to identify the players first. Gotta at least attempt the game, right?

The other players look more or less pressed from the same medieval fashion mold. Each and every juror is dressed in robes of varying fabric types; I find, with a little observation, that the ones wearing velvet appeared to have the most influence, followed by the ones in silk, then the ones in ermine. An old man with a particularly spectacular purple outfit with matching pointed hat and a long, Gandalf-like beard as well as half-moon spectacles served as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, meaning he was the Head Loon presiding over my trial by Lesser-Head Loons. About fifty or so men and women of various ages and sizes wearing plum-colored robes emblazoned with silver W sit in neat rows around the room. Some are taking notes with old-fashioned looking quills and parchment, if quills moved on their own with flourishes and swirls.

I don't get much of a chance to gape at the self-moving quills (is it live wires? Magnetic currents?) before I'm unceremoniously shoved in a wooden cage-like chair in the middle of the room. Everyone else is is standing, but apparently the accused can sit in the most uncomfortable chair known to Man fot the opening ceremony.

I sigh mentally as Head Loon begins speaking.

 _Game Start._

...

As you can guess, my first day in Court went about as well as vacuuming milk with your nose when you have a cold. Equal parts confusing and painful with a dash of solid embarrassment. Problem one for the prosecution (i.e., the plum robes) is establishing that I am, in fact, Hermione Granger. My strenuous protests to the contrary notwithstanding, I can see how establishing my identity would be a difficult task to establish given my extensive memory loss.

Who is to say that I am or am not Hermione Granger? Who is the real Hermione anyway, and what is it about me that reminds people of her?

Instead of going the obvious route of asking people who knew Hermione Granger to make an identification (a solution precluded by something about Polyjuice and also Imperius, not that I know what either of those are), I am presented with...a stick. The same pretty one that belong(s/ed) to Hermione.

I'll just leave my astonished gaping on the record here without further sarcastic commentary.

Someone named Gaelic (not his real name) Ollivander is brought in to give evidence in short order. The lead prosecutor is a woman with a reedy voice that I mentally term Fluffy due to the three-headed dog pin she was wearing. A decidedly ferocious-looking creature that had a tendency to bit dust motes, though I'm not sure where the Fluffy part came from. Perhaps I was developing a sense of gallows humor due to the sheer craziness of the situation or, more likely, my brain short-circuited at the sight of an animatronic barking brooch more suited for a Universal Studios ride.

When questioned about the stick, this odd, spiral-looking man claimed he sold it to me when I was eleven. "Ah, yes. Miss Granger, 10.75 inches, vine wood, dragon heartstring. Excellent for Charms work and picky wand; you can imagine how difficult it was to sell. Rejected a good thirty owners before finally choosing Miss Granger."

At Fluffy's prodding, Ollivander identifies me as the same Miss Granger who purchased the wand.

"What is the likelihood of this wand identifying another owner besides Miss Granger? How confident are you that this wand will identify Miss Granger and only her as its true owner?"

Ollivander doesn't even hesitate before nodding; thanks a lot, wizened old prune. "Absolutely certain. This wand would only work for Miss Granger. This is _**not**_ a wand to willingly go to another owner. This wand craves character and intelligence. Wouldn't just go willingly to any Merlin or Arthur wannabe. This wand chose Miss Granger, and, based on that, we can expect great, if terrible, things from her."

The gallery shivered with an undercurrent I didn't quite get. This asssessment brought out a latent undercurrent of fear, and not of _just_ me, either.

Before I can ponder this further for alternative solutions, The Plums vote to have me try the wand to ascertain my identity.

 _Please wave it_ , _Miss Granger_. The wand will recognize your magical signature.

Yeah, sure, why don't I try balancing a table on my pinkie while I'm at it?

Swallowing my protests about A. my obvious lack of magic, B. the impossibility of binding an ephemeral concept of "magic" to an object, C. attribution of human characteristics such as "memory" to inanimate cells, D. utter disregard for modern scientific methods such as fingerprinting, DNA, voice analysis, etc., I attempt a series of overly exaggerated swirls.

(No one laughed, in case you were wondering, though I got a small smile hidden behind a discreet cough from Head Loon, upgrading him to Mall Santa Wannabe in my inner monologue).

The wand performed an astounding bout of magical Nothing.

I tried again with my other hand, as requested.

Still _Nothing_.

(I told you so, complete with funky chicken Macarena dance.)

An uneasy murmur percolated through the gallery. The jurors appeared perplexed. Murmurs dribbled. _Are we sure that's even her? Why doesn't the wand recognize her? Did she Confound it? Bind her magic?_

All of this added up to one question: _How does she walk, talk, and act like Hermione Granger but not_ _ **be**_ _Hermione Granger?_

Ostentatiously, I flourish again with a bow. Still nothing. The stick merely rested between my fingers, as cool and immobile as ever.

Fluffy looked very affronted plucking the stick out of my hands with an exaggerated show of delicacy. "If you please, Mr. Ollivander, confirm that this wand has not been tampered with?"

Ollivander turned the wand over in his hand, running one calloused finger against the grain of the wood with a small frown. A small shower of red and gold sparks appeared, nearly scalping Fluffy. (Santa and I shared a cough-laugh again.)"This is the wand of Miss Granger. I remember every wand I have ever made and sold, although-" he cut off with a strange croak, the stick dropping from his fingers with a solid _thunk_ as the smell of burning filled the room.

"Well?" Prompted Fluffy impatiently.

Cradling his now-injured hands, Ollivander looked uncomfortable. "Well...That is to say, this wand _is_ and is _not_ the one I originally sold to Miss Granger."

"Excuse me?" I cut in eagerly, trampling several procedural customs in the process and not caring in the least. _This_ was the opening I've been waiting for. "How can something belong to someone and yet not belong to someone? If this wand was sold to Hermione Granger and would not have accepted another owner, then by definition it would impossible for the possession of this wand to be split between more than one entity."

The old man sighed as a sliver of smoke rose from the wand. "I mean that this wand has been bewitched by Miss Granger to obey more than one owner. That would have taken powerful magic, a feat that Miss Granger was more than capable of."

"Did you not testify earlier that this particular wand was intensely loyal to Miss Granger and only Miss Granger?" I press forward. "How can she or anyone else override this intense loyalty even with magic?"

Ollivander looked aggrieved. "I don't know. Magic is capable of wondrous and terrible things. I can describe the wand's behavior as follows: it will accept the touch of Miss Granger and everyone it was bewitched to follow and no other." Holding up his palms, he pointed to two thin red lines. "The wand will burn all other hands, including the ones that made it. And since you were not burnt when you handled the wand, you must either be Hermione Granger or a trusted owner."

I ponder this development for a second, then decided to store it for future reference. "That sounds like unsubstantiated supposition. The fact that the wand _may_ answer to me is not proof that it does, in fact, answer to me. The possibility of existence is not evidence of said existence. The wand burnt you, Mr. Ollivander, but it also produced sparks which I assume is a reaction to your magic. The wand did not burn me, but it failed to produce any magic-related reactions. Is it possible that this wand only reacts to those with magical ability and is simply dormant for non-magical people such as myself? In other words, I do not have to be Hermione Granger or a trusted owner of the wand to elicit an adverse reaction?"

Sensing her case going south for winter, Fluffy chooses this moment to Object to my "baseless inferences."

"I am merely engaging logical reasoning, ma'am." I retort acidly. "And, of course, utilizing my rights listed under Rights of UnderAge Wizardry Decree 280 Section C to cross examine witness evidence. Now Mr. Ollivander, are there any prior instances of wands charmed to obey more than one owner? Could you please provide us with an explanation as to how this magic operates and how it can be confirmed?"

Poor Ollivander is melting into the floor. "This is the first occurrence of a wand answering to multiple current owners at the same time."

"I see." I summarized, waiting just a little too long before continuing in order for the message to percolate. "To wit, it is completely possible that this wand belonged to Miss Granger as well as a potentially infinite number of people, meaning that any one of them could have utilized this wand to commit the crimes that Miss Granger is accused of. That is theoretically a very large suspect pool. Might I ask how we can determine who these other owners are so we can question them as well, if only to eliminate them as persons of interest?"

"Well, yes, theoretically it is possible to find all the owners, however, wandlore would indicate that the most likely suspect is Miss Granger herse-"

I cut Ollivander off, sure that he was about to dive into a tangent that would inevitably derail my hard-won logic. "Am I correct in stating, Mr. Ollivander, that it is entirely possible that someone or multiple someones framed Miss Granger?"

Looking defeated, Ollivander nodded reluctantly. "That is possible, yes."

The plum woman is not as easily impressed and rounds on me sharply. "It is also possible and _very likely_ that Miss Granger and multiple accomplices committed the crimes. For example, would you care to explain why _Prior Incantato_ showed the very last spell performed with this wand to be _Obliviate_?"

I freeze.

"Ob...Obliviate?"

...

A few hints if you're taking a crack at solving the mystery:

1\. Constant vigilance.

2\. Suspect everyone.

3\. C-TOMATOES-2


	3. Wingardium Leviosa

**Disclaimer** : Sadly, I do not own Harry Potter, its characters, or any existing storylines. I do not own any allusions to existing pieces of literature (i.e., _The Crucible_ ), either. This piece of fanfiction is for entertainment only.

...

The second thing I do for myself is acquire a set of beginning Wizarding curriculum books. This _Obliviate_ , whatever it is, brought the entire collection of plum robes to silence. While I had slightly inappropriate need to shout "Your robe is on fire!" just to witness the mayhem, my appropriate side won out when I realized that this was not the way to go. After all, I was trying to make a good impression on the people who could potentially sentence me to a fate worse than internet dating.

Thus, I remained silent as the peanut gallery alternated between feeling very sorry for me ("Poor girl, brightest witch of her age, having her memory wiped and all") and feeling not at all charitable about my predicament ("Devious girl, brightest witch of her age, wiping her own memory in order to escape justice"). I become, simultaneously, both sinner and saint in a _Crucible_ -like production with a Herculean budget for costumes.

As the jury deliberated my apparent memory loss amongst themselves, Mall Santa looked at me thoughtfully, almost as if he could read my mind (that's not possible, is it?) with one finger tapping his lips. I raise my eyebrow as if to say, "It would be great if I knew what this Obliviate does," and his big blue eyes twinkled before proceedings adjourn for the day.

...

Afterwards, safely ensconced in my holding cell deep within a dark and imposing building somewhere off the coast of Britain, I commence my magical education with _The Standard Book of Spells, Book 1,_ moving on to more advanced tomes as the night wore on. Despite their somewhat archaic origins, the philosophical paradigms behind magical subjects are simply _fascinating_. For example, are you aware that Charms as a subject is different from Transfiguration in that Charms is the study of altering the substance of an object whereas Transfiguration alters the object's substance completely?

 _Well_ , neither did I. Clever wordplay aside, the idea that fundamental properties of physics can be changed is ripe with implications for humanity.

Does your food taste bad? Make it sweet or sour, depending on your preferences!

Do you not have enough food? Simply multiply the food you have into more!

Do you need to preserve or deliver food long distances? Use your wand! There are a number of spells that defy both gravity and physics yet somehow _work_.

All in all, the idea of magic is simply filled with possibilities with a few hardcore rules. Take the properties of food listed above, for example. Food can only be manipulated when an existing source is available. Unfortunately, one cannot Charm or Transfigure food out of thin air, just as one cannot "magic" living things from nothing. While it is possible to alter the atomic structure of _things_ , it is not generally possible to alter the cellular structure of living _beings_. (Dead beings are another matter, but necromancy is unfortunately not among the subjects I am allowed to study, nor have I made such a request given that I am...on trial for murder. Public perception, etc., etc.)

In other words, turning a few apples into oranges consistent with the rules (something called Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, look it up if you really want to, though it is quite dense and boring); changing the neural pathways of the brain is inconsistent with the rules in the sense that it is difficult to do so with a high degree of accuracy, unless of course one is very, very skilled. Even then, the intricacies of the human mind do not lend themselves well to a high degree of specificity for an infinite amount of time. As I suspected, there are, of course, rare instances in which memory modification have been broken through torture or significant emotional trauma (someone named Crouch and Jorkins?). There are also instances in which memory charms have been so severe as to completely "wipe" the personality of the recipient. The logical conclusion is that certain qualities that are inextricably bound to the physical properties of an object, and that memory charms are only adding or subtracting to the properties of the mind in varying degrees.

Meaning that I could, in theory, reproduce the memories that were altered because something of their fundamental structure is still inextricably bound to the structure of my brain even if I do not "remember" it per se.

This would be very helpful in determining whether or not I am, in fact, hallucinating, massively sleep-deprived, on something very potent, or all of the above. Figuring out how to recover my memories would help answer a number of life-saving questions such as: Who am I? Where did I come from? Why am I here? And, most importantly, How Do I Get Out Of Here, preferably alive.

Or as the Prosecution would like to know, am I really Hermione Granger, or someone with a similar enough personality with the "extras" carefully removed to resemble her? If I am Hermione, why did I murder innocent people and then wipe my own mind? Did I plan out enough to know that I would eventually recover my memories? What knowledge was contained within them, that I would need to erase them instead of carrying them with me to trial?

...

Luckily, I find the beginnings of some answers during the second day in court. A witness (actually, perpetually dim-witted prancing puppet) named Gilderoy Lockhart is brought in as a prime example of Hermione Granger's magical prowess, star witness to how a brilliant witch could both plan and execute a fantastical serial murdered plot and then conveniently remove herself as a prime suspect through memory modification. The argument against me, unfortunately, does not inspire confidence in myself; the person brought in to testify, however, inspires many feelings, mostly of mind-numbing exasperation.

Lockhart is presented before the Plum-robes with perfectly coiffed hair and, inexplicably, a straitjacket, as he was transported from St. Mungo's Hospital for the proceedings. The testimony before Fluffy and the prosecution is pronounced with great flourish as if starring in a movie. Name: Gilderoy Lockhart. Favorite color: lavender. Dream: marketing his own line of hair care products. Profession: famous celebrity, author, and former Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...where he taught one Hermione Granger.

 _This bleached, pompous milquetoast with an ego the size of Britain is a_ _ **professor**_ _?_ No wonder wizards and witches were loons; these adults legitimately _hired_ a permanent resident of a magical psychiatric ward to teach young children. Were no other qualified candidates available to fill the post? Can't these people conjure up some dancing candy instead? What kind of education are magical children receive at this Hogwarts, anyway? There were simply no standards!

"Ah, yes." Lockhart announced loudly, gesticulating grandly through his white-buckled spandex as soon as he spotted me, without any prompting whatsoever from Fluffy or any members of the gallery. "That's Miss Granger. A most prodigiously talented witch. Not as brilliant as myself, of course, though closer than any of my contemporaries. For full details: see my published works. She is reasonable bright for her age, however, being the student in the entire year to score above one hundred percent in all of my quizzes about my autobiography."

Fluffy is sickeningly happy at this. "Miss Granger is one of your favorite students, then? Would it be safe to state that you were supportive of, even indulgent, of her various requests even though they broke school and ethical rules?" Lockhart beamed in assent, blonde curls dancing, hardly noticing as Fluffy brandishes a lavender colored, scented piece of paper under his face. "Would you kindly confirm that this is your signature, Professor, giving Miss Granger special permission to access the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library?"

Without even glancing down, Lockhart leans forward and sniffs- sniffs!- the paper, muttering something about frauds copying his autograph for profit. "Yes, this is an authentic Gilderoy signature, done with my signature peacock feather pen. It has a distinctive sage and mint scent, you see, a most thoughtful parting gift from a most thankful Sultan after I rid his Kingdom of some particularly troublesome Cornish-"

The rest of a riveting tale is cut off by Fluffy's pointed, girlish cough, effectively robbing Lockhart of his one captive audience member who was not gaping in shock (too many adjectives, I suspect). As the paper is thrust under my nose, I, too, am visually assaulted by the sight of enough loops and whirls to strangle a small animal after the overwhelming scent knocks them unconscious. I was wrong; this Lockhart has an ego the size of several universes. Tucked in a corner with a minuscule twenty-five flourishes is a request for the library to lend Moste Potente Potions. "Do you recognize this permission slip Professor Lockhart signed for you, Miss Granger?"

"No." I reply shortly. "I do not."

The toad-like woman is not easily deterred by such items as reasonably firm denials of non-existent events. "Are you saying that you do not recall asking Professor Lockhart to borrow a most dangerous artifact of dark magic from the library at a school you have been attending since you were eleven?"

"That is exactly what I'm saying." I repeat again, a little less patiently. "I do not recall this book, nor do I recall asking this...this memorably humble gentleman...to borrow books on a subject that I do not believe exists at a school I do not remember attending."

"And yet Professor Lockhart here insists that you flattered him into signing this permission slip at Hogwarts to perform what later witnesses will testify to as a highly advanced level of magic for the purpose of deception and rule-breaking?"

I look at Lockhart (he's currently tracking figure-eights with his feet on someone's robes while laughing delightedly, like a small child) and shake my head again. "He is hardly a credible witness. With all due respect, ma'am, Professor Lockhart would be flattered if a shadow asked him to autograph the moon. If all the professors are as qualified as he is, I am not surprised that children at Hogwarts would resort to teaching themselves at the library."

There a curious gleam in Fluffy's eyes now. "Are you aware, Miss Granger, that shortly after signing this permission slip for you, Professor Lockhart was subject to an Obliviate spell?"

"Perhaps he was helping another Sultan?" I suggest helpfully, to a few sniggers in the audience. I didn't mark their owners, though Head Loon's mustache definitely wiggled.

"So you categorically deny that you tricked Professor Lockhart into providing you with the means to masquerade as forthcoming witnesses Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle in order to commit the serious infraction of breaking and entering a Hogwarts Common Room?"

For an answer, I turned to Lockhart again. "Would you say that I have attacked, tricked, or poisoned you, Professor Lockhart, during your time at Hogwarts?" Said professor didn't answer, as he had commenced singing about warty frogs and filling brains now that his autograph has been removed and no one was watching his one-man show of robe-stealing. In the span of a few moments, he seemed entranced by the light glinting off Head Loon's glasses and was trying to match the reactions of the sunbeams, rather awkwardly, as if he was trying to appear under a stage light for an opera. At his non-response, I shrug again. "It does not appear as if Professor Lockhart believes I have tried or manipulated him to commit any crimes, ma'am."

Fluffy is not amused; bits of steam are rising above her too-pink brooch, a gaggle of murmuring cats today. "Professor Lockhart unable to respond to your questions as he is the victim of a severe Memory Impairment charm, potentially cast by you as part of your quest to become the most powerful witch of your age. Perhaps, having successfully casting Obliviate on your professor to hide your dark deeds, you have been perfecting your technique as a serial murderer. Now, having been caught, you have turned your most useful weapon against others on yourself with the hope of escaping justice."

I couldn't help but laugh at this absurd yet perhaps all-too true theory of my rise to power. "Or perhaps the person who wiped my memory used him for target practice and missed. You have a nice theory, but we have yet to see any evidence that I have the means to perform Obliviate or any other spell. Everyone saw how the wand from yesterday, right? How exactly did I commit serial magical crimes without any magic producing implements?"

Euphoric expectation is the only description for the smile that lit up Fluffy's face. "Funny you should ask that, Miss Granger. All twelve of your victims were _stabbed_ to death."


	4. Nox

**Nox**

 **Disclaimer** : Sadly, I do not own _Harry Potter._

...

All twelve victims were... _stabbed_. Twelve times each, in fact.

 _How_...anticlimactic.

Hypothetically speaking, stabbing is not a very efficient choice vis-a-vis other methods of killing, especially not when magic is available. Without getting into technical, gruesome detail, the stabbing is messy, leaving the offender with the task of cleaning both the scene and the evidence. Additionally, wielding sharp implements requires incredible precision, implying that the victims would need to be subdued physically and consciously; otherwise, the danger to the implement wielder can be fatal— or at least potentially debilitating, if your would-be-victim suddenly managers to turn the blade your way.

Now, if you've taken a look at me (one Hermione Granger) any time recently, you'll know that I'm average height, slender, not exactly buff; ergo, I can maybe lift a small weight, tops. You wouldn't even _need_ to look at a dozen full grown victims with twelve stab wounds each at various junctures to conclude that this alleged crime spree would be very difficult task for me to carry out alone given my relatively tiny stature. Given the nature of the adults (adult men and women of various heights, weights, and center of gravity distributions), I would have to be either very efficient with my body mechanics or very, very reliant on either Muggle or Magical restraints.

Unfortunately for the prosecution, the magical autopsies revealed no sign of external, Muggle-type restraints such as ropes, tape, etc. The obvious conclusion would be that some other means of restraints were utilized— most likely magical, since there were no other visible damage. The question of exactly what kind of Magical restraints is still under investigation (read: they have no clue and are stalling for time, most likely), hence the significantly long trial period between establishing my identity and moving onto the actual minutiae of the commission of the crime.

What puzzles me is why I wouldn't have chosen more practical Magical method for this alleged crime. Surely, with all the nifty magical tricks available with a functioning wand, I could have found a more efficient way than some kind of magical restraint and then haphazard stabbing in various quadrants? You would think people who can multiply food and instantaneously appear and reappear in different places could harness this kind of energy for...oh...I don't know...less complicated and risky methods that don't involve leaving copious amounts of evidence behind?

In other words, with curses such as the Avada Kedavra floating around, it's terribly illogical for any witch or wizard would resort to Muggle means.

Or at least it would be, if magic wasn't traceable.

As the boring, gruesome parts of the trial wore on, I learned that wands can be forced to regurgitate the last few spells performed. This is how Aurors (magical detectives) determined that someone utilized Hermione's wand to wipe my memory. What the Aurors have been unable to tell me or the Court, however, is why or who performed the action. That is to say, the spells are traceable, but the magical signature of the caster is not.

Of course, one can easily bypass having their magic traced by utilizing a different wand. That is one of the reasons why the Ministry of Magic closely regulates the sale and purchase of wands, and why people such as Ollivander are routinely invited to testify in magical trials. Then again, just because Hermione's wand was utilized to commit said crimes does not mean that Hermione herself was responsible, nevermind the fact that I may or may not be Hermione and, from what little I've learned about her during testimony, Hermione is bright enough not to hang a neon "LOOK HERE" sign above her wand.

Hermione (or me, since we haven't established that yet), would have chosen the most logical, least hands-on solution. She would have either devised a near graceless magical solution or a near traceless Muggle solution. From a purely theoretical perspective, stabbing is highly personal. It's not like pressing a trigger or lighting a fuse, all of which can be done remotely, from (relative) distance and safety. Stabbing is technical, specific, and very, very precise. You would have to know right places to stab to induce certain death and be certain of hitting at least one; otherwise, people end up with various randomly placed wounds in potentially non-fatal places, like the victims here. A couple of the deeper wounds would have caused massive bleeding eventually, but most of the superficial wounds would have caused pain, which of course is awful, but not conducive to the end game.

Frankly, the entirety of this alleged M.O. confuses me. I can brainstorm any number of less "obvious" ways to accomplish the same point without the risk of...you know...victims escaping, leaving evidence behind, getting caught, etc. etc.

 _Yet another reason why wizards and witches were loons,_ I thought. _I would have just Avada-ed everyone with someone else's wand and Vanished the evidence._

 _..._

Besides the technical reports of the magical autopsy branch, the character witnesses after Lockhart were surprisingly boring. Having learned that long term residents of Spell Damage wards do not make credible witnesses, Fluffy has resorted to calling people with impeccable credentials...or, in many cases, those with too short a history to be established as unreliable ones.

The first victim of this new strategy is a short, blond boy with a mass of curly hair and a mountain of teenage acne. Colin Creevy can't be more than fifteen or sixteen, but he's thrilled to be part of the Wizengamot proceedings because he's Muggle and he's never ever seen the inside of such a great courtroom before. The only unfortunate thing is that the Plum Robes won't let him bring his cameras to document the proceedings; not to worry, though, there is an overgrown, beetle-esque reporter in the front row for some gossip rag documenting each word for the public's perusal.

Colin begins his testimony by excitedly identifying me as a fellow long-term resident of the Hospital Wing in his First Year at Hogwarts. Apparently he was the victim of a Basilisk whose permanent home is a secret chamber under the foundation of the school— _yup_ , you read that right— this school of magic, this so-called safest place in the world, had a beast that could kill with one stare wandering around the pipes where it can murder children and adults at will and not one of the so-called teachers bothered to take substantive action.

(Can we just pause to reflect on how _I'm_ supposed to be the crazy one here?!)

The only reason Colin isn't dead is because— get this— his _camera_. He had the great fortune of "seeing" the Basilisk through the lens instead of staring at it head-on, which is, I'm sure, a great comfort to his parents who no doubt thought sending their son off to school to learn magic would be grand adventures and not life or death situations.

Incidentally, the only reason I'm (er, Hermione's) alive is because I was the only one who figured out the culprit was a Basilisk and had the good sense to carry around a mirror instead of looking directly into its eyes. I was twelve at the time, people. _Yay_ , me, although I didn't figure this out in time to stop myself from being Petrified like a lump of wax for a portion of my education. Small wonder Lockhart even remembers me after I wasn't even in his class for a part of the year, a fact that did not make Fluffy any happier when I pointed out that I couldn't have possibly Obliviated the pompous milquetoast as I was literally unconscious in the Hospital Wing at the time.

Judging by the glare on her face, I'm sure she regrets me ever being revived from Petrification, and not just because I'm doing a somewhat passable job of defending myself with little information and minimal outside help.

Then again, if I truly reasoned out the Basilisk situation at twelve, I suspect I have a decent shot of out-reasoning some of the minds here. Good thing, too, because the more I get to know this world, the more I think some of the adults are worse than useless. No wonder children go to unimaginable lengths to protect fellow children from terrors that really shouldn't be a part of any child's repertoire.

A terrifying thought, considering _that_ is my allegedly motive for committing the stabbings.


End file.
